Remember the Drifters
by Antique Orange
Summary: Short one chap. fic - the loss of a life neither young nor old only lost in the harsh world that surrounds him.


Remember the Drifters  
  
Rated: PG-13  
  
Disclaimer: Steve Randle (though you may not know that it's him) is not mine, nor is the well...much of anything - give all credit due to S.E. Hinton to her and all the bad stuff pin on me.  
  
Author's Note: Don't know where this came from...it's bad and pointless and not really a story so much as...well I don't know what it is...sorta something that I would write for Creative Writing cause I always write more morbid things when given an assignment - anyway will update the other fic later this week (possibly tomorrow) and have more cheer and optimism than this.   
  
Author's Note 2: [updated in regards to some well placed confusion] This doesn't have much to do with the actual Outsiders, more with the time period in which they lived, the atmosphere S.E. Hinton created. In my opinion it was a time of hate and selfishness; we all write stories of these runaways and unwanted people being taken in and loved forever by the gang, I wrote what I think probably would have really happened. Neither Soc nor Greaser rushed to help the kid in this - uh piece of writing - in fact the only thing they united in was getting rid of the unwanted. So yeah, doesn't have much to do with the actual novel the Outsiders (and for that I'm sorry) but I got the concept from S.E. Hinton so I figure I'd put it here. Thanks :)  
  
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He was looking for a fight, nothing but a fight. A way to blow off steam and then move on to the next town and start all over again. Because that's what drifters do, they wander and fight and get a starved hungry look in their eyes and overall appearance. They're dirty and no longer notice until they shower at a YMCA or get rained on and come across a mirror and can actually note their lighter skin tone. A drifter doesn't have friends or family nor do they want them, maybe deep down they do, but they can't on the surface, because that's not what drifters do. They don't want, they don't pine, they don't ask, or beg, or need help. Drifters just drift.  
  
Mike was a drifter, he couldn't really remember a time when he wasn't a drifter, whether this was a personal choice or due to all the drugs he had taken in the past no one knew, nor did anyone care. Mike was a drifter, his parents died long ago and never had any children before they kicked the bucket, not after having Mike.   
  
He had been a fat child, he knew that much because he'd been picked on in school, before he became a drifter and although he couldn't remember the individual occurrences the scars ran deep in his still overweight body. He had been a drifter back then too in a sense, after all his parents had died and he had no friends and that left him with nothing except his own self to keep him company.   
  
He had left as soon as possible, the orphanage that he had been placed in was too small for a drifter to feel free, so one night he left and had wandered the streets ever since.   
  
No one missed him.  
  
Now he was looking for a fight, unsure of the town he was in, he had gotten there by hitch hiking until the driver kicked him out on a deserted street.  
  
His dull brown eyes searched the kids on the sidewalk seeking out the best dressed yet scrawniest chap in order to jump and mug him.   
  
His ripped blue jeans were brown with dust and dirt, his black T-shirt also ripped and slightly too tight to hide his slightly protruding stomach.   
  
His pupils were dilated, being hopped up on something he had gotten from another fight the night before. He didn't know what it was, he hadn't stopped to ask before pounding the nameless face into a pulp.  
  
His eyes wavered over the crowd, unable to focus before he spotted a skinny red haired boy with an arm full of books and a thick winter coat to protect him from the cold winds blowing through.  
  
Mike knocked the books out of the boy's hands and heard them fall to the ground, the other people on the sidewalk kept moving.  
  
The boy protested but Mike had already slammed his fist into the boy's nose and watched in fascination as the blood flowed readily from the boy's face onto his white shirt.   
  
The fist coming from the other direction caught him off guard and he stumbled.  
  
A boy in a leather jacket with black hair had hit him  
  
Hard  
  
Mike was confused, unable to decide who to try to beat up and regained his balance and went after the new boy.  
  
While the two of them scrambled on the sidewalk the red haired boy searched his jacket frantically and pulled out a gun, trying to undo the safety device.  
  
Mike didn't notice as he kneed the black haired boy in the chest and was punched again.  
  
The red head was holding the gun shakily not knowing who to aim it at   
  
Mike lunged at him, desperate to get hold of the gun.  
  
The black haired boy pushed him out of the way and was hit in the shoulder   
  
Cursing loudly, he wasn't heard over the noise of another gunshot  
  
And then another  
  
And one more  
  
Mike sank to his knees, the gun clattered to the ground, people had finally stopped walking past them and were all watching.  
  
Mike grabbed the gun and held it triumphantly as he watched the two boys, one so well dressed and the other only slightly better than Mike, exchange contemptuous looks towards one another, looks full of hate and misunderstandings but mutual triumph.   
  
Mike's eyes met with the black haired boy's who screwed his eyes shut tightly, remembering another boy falling onto the ground, holes in his chest streaming blood, a friend of his, someone he cared about.  
  
He didn't care about Mike though and he turned around and walked away quickly.  
  
The red head looked scared and fled into the crowd.  
  
No one was watching Mike as he fell over backwards and his head hit the pavement.  
  
No one was watching as the life ran out of the Drifter and onto the sidewalk  
  
No one remembered the Drifter once the cops took away his body and the rain washed away his blood.  
  
no one ever remembers the drifters. 


End file.
